Ellery Queen - Roman Hat Mystery

“Get to bed, son,” he said. “You’ve got to get up early tomorrow morning. I’m going to sit up and think.”

The current vogue in detective literature is all for the practice of placing the reader in the position of chief sleuth. I have prevailed upon Mr. Ellery Queen to permit at this point in THE ROMAN HAT MYSTERY the interpolation of a challenge to the reader... “Who killed Monte Field?” “How was the murder accomplished?”... Mr. Queen agrees with me that the alert student of mystery tales, now being in possession of all the pertinent facts, should at this stage of the story have reached definite conclusions on the questions propounded. The solution — or enough of it to point unerringly to the guilty character — may be reached by a series of logical deductions and psychological observations... In closing my last personal appearance in the tale let me admonish the reader with a variation of the phrase Caveat Emptor: “Let the reader beware!”

J. J. McC.

It was notable, particularly to District Attorney Sampson, that on Saturday evening Inspector Richard Queen was far from being himself. The old man was irritable, snappish and utterly uncongenial. He paced fretfully across the carpet of Manager Louis Panzer’s office, biting his lips and muttering beneath his breath. He seemed oblivious to the presence of Sampson, Panzer and a third person who had never been in that theatrical sanctum before and was seated, mouselike, in one of Panzer’s big chairs, his eyes like saucers. This was bright-eyed Djuna, granted the unprecedented privilege of accompanying his gray patron on this last incursion into the Roman Theatre.

In truth, Queen was singularly depressed. He had many times in his official life been confronted by apparently insoluble problems; he had as many times brought triumph out of failure. The Inspector’s strange manner therefore was doubly inexplicable to Sampson, who had been associated with the old man for years and had never seen him so completely unstrung.

The old man’s moodiness was not due to the progress of the Field investigation, as Sampson worriedly thought. Wiry little Djuna, sitting open-mouthed in his corner, was the only spectator to the Inspector’s mad pacing who could have put his finger on the truth. Djuna, wise by virtue of gamin perspicacity, observant by nature, familiar with Queen’s temperament through a loving association, knew that his patron’s manner was due solely to Ellery’s absence from the scene. Ellery had left New York on the 7:45 express that morning, having been gloomily accompanied to the station by his father. At the last moment the younger man had changed his mind, announcing his decision to forego the trip to Maine and abide in New York by his father’s side until the case was concluded. The old man would have none of it. With his shrewd insight into Ellery’s nature, he realized how keenly his highly strung son had been looking forward to this first vacation in over a year. It was not in his heart, impatient as he was for the constant presence of his son, to deprive him of this long contemplated pleasure trip.

Accordingly, he had swept aside Ellery’s proposal and pushed him up the steps of the train, with a parting clap and a wan smile. Ellery’s last words, shouted from the platform as the train glided out of the station, were: “I’m not forgetting you, Dad. You’ll hear from me sooner than you expect!”

Now, torturing the nap of Manager Panzer’s rug, the Inspector was feeling the full impact of their separation. His brain was addled, his constitution flabby, his stomach weak, his eyes dim. He felt completely out of tune with the world and its denizens, and he made no attempt to conceal his irritation.

“Should be about time now, Panzer,” he growled to the stout little manager. “How long does this infernal audience take to clear out, anyway?”

“In a moment, Inspector, in a moment,” replied Panzer. The District Attorney sniffed away the remnants of his cold. Djuna stared in fascination at his god.

A rap on the door twisted their heads about. Tow-headed Harry Neilson, the publicity man, poked his rugged face into the room. “Mind if I join the little party, Inspector?” he inquired cheerfully. “I was in at the birth, and if there’s going to be a death — why, I’m aiming to stick around, with your permission!”

The Inspector shot him a dour glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. He stood in a Napoleonic attitude, his every hair and muscle bristling with ill-nature. Sampson regarded him in surprise. Inspector Queen was showing an unexpected side to his temper.

“Might’s well,” he barked. “One more won’t hurt. There’s an army here as it is.”

Neilson reddened slightly and made a move as if to withdraw. The Inspector’s eye twinkled with a partial return to good spirits.

“Here — sit down, Neilson,” he said, not unkindly. “Mustn’t mind an old fogey like me. I’m just frazzled a bit. Might need you tonight at that.”

“Glad to be let in on it, Inspector,” grinned Neilson. “What’s the idea — sort of Spanish Inquisition?”

“Just about.” The old man bent his brows. “But — well see.”

At this moment the door opened and the tall, broad figure of Sergeant Velie stepped quickly into the room. He was carrying a sheet of paper which he handed to the Inspector.

“All present, sir,” he said.

“Everybody out?” snapped Queen.

“Yes, sir. I’ve told the cleaning women to go down into the lounge and hang around until we’re through. Cashiers have gone home, so have the ushers and usherettes. Cast is backstage, I guess, getting dressed.”

“Right. Let’s go, gentlemen.” The Inspector stalked out of the room followed closely by Djuna, who had not opened his mouth all evening except to emit noiseless gasps of admiration, for no reason that the amused District Attorney could see. Panzer, Sampson and Neilson also followed, Velie bringing up the rear.

The auditorium was again a vast and deserted place, the empty rows of seats stark and cold. The lights of the theatre had been switched on in full and their cold radiance lit up every corner of the orchestra.

As the five men and Djuna swung toward the extreme left aisle, there was a concerted bobbing of heads from the left section of seats. It was apparent now that a small group of people were awaiting the arrival of the Inspector, who walked heavily down the aisle and took up a position in front of the left boxes, so that all the seated people faced him. Panzer, Neilson and Sampson stood at the head of the aisle with Djuna at one side, a feverish spectator.

The assembled party was placed peculiarly. From the row nearest the Inspector, who stood about halfway down the orchestra, and proceeding towards the rear the only seats occupied were those directly on the left aisle. The end two seats of the dozen rows were filled by a motley aggregation — men and women, old and young. They were the same people who had occupied these chairs on the night of the fatal performance and whom Inspector Queen had personally examined after the discovery of the body. In the section of eight seats — Monte Field’s and the empty ones which had surrounded it — were grouped William Pusak, Esther Jablow, Madge O’Connell, Jess Lynch and Parson Johnny — the Parson furtive-eyed, uneasy and whispering to the usherette behind nicotined fingers.